


Insomnia

by beansprean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, For Science!, Gen, PTSD nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Spooning, UST, it's totally not weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beansprean/pseuds/beansprean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't sleep, John can't not dream. Sherlock pushes a solution that's not weird at all. (A classic 'we're-going-to-share-a-bed-for-science-John-it's-very-simple' fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on livejournal; heavily edited. Not britpicked but if anyone wants to do it I am amenable. :)

John never wakes up before the bullet hits him. But then again, since he moved into Baker Street with the world's only consulting detective, 'per usual' has never been a big part of his day.

He thrashes. He's still in the battlefield, still crawling in the dust with his rifle and a red cross on his shoulder, as steel bars lock down around him. This doesn't happen, a small, rational part of John's mind protests. This never happens. The harsh metal closing tightly around his ribs don't seem to care. John can barely move. The bars drag him deeper into the hot, sucking sand. Taliban are shouting, moving in. DeLaney is still bleeding out and John is supposed to be putting pressure on the wound right now. He's supposed to reach him. He's supposed to be able to save his life before he gets shot. John grabs at the bars and pulls, twisting, a move he doesn't know he remembers. He's surprised when they cry out and yield to his fingertips. Soft. Not steel. Skin. Familiar arms grasp at his chest and claw at his shoulder. There's the Pashtun woman he couldn't save, the kid from his regiment who was barely eighteen and had thrown himself over a grenade, the man with sepsis he was treating that he never knew if he'd lived, and another pair that's long and pale and familiar but not something he's ever seen at this point in his life.

John opens his eyes and the Afghan sun gives way to darkness.

The first breath of air he sucks in rattles against his tongue and refuses to go down. The arms are still around him, his own hands digging deeply into the struggling flesh. Air won't come; he's being suffocated. Everything is going Dalmatian. John wraps an elbow around the limbs and goes for a break. There is a yelp, and the arms yank themselves away violently. Everything feels immensely less frantic without them, and John manages to suck in an adequate breath. Then two. The spots fade.

The vague shapes around him aren't too clear in the shadows, but coming into focus he recognizes his own knees beneath the quilt, and his desk on the far wall next to the gently glowing window. Bed. Baker Street. Home. John slowly relaxes into the overheated bedclothes, reminding himself how truly wonderful breathing is. Then the mattress shifts and he tenses up once more, scrambling for the bedside light. He flicks it on.

Less wonderful is the fact that Sherlock Holmes is lying beside him in his bed. That. That is a bit not good.

Sherlock is grumbling and rubbing at his wrists with a cross expression. As John scrambles into a sitting position, heart hammering soundly from the nightmare, the part of his brain that isn't thinking _Where does he get off looking cross when he's snuck himself into my bunk_ is pretty much wondering _What is he doing sneaking into my bunk?_

"What the...hell are you doing?" he whisper-shouts, mindful of the still and quiet of deep night. John prides himself on his increasing ability to bounce back from his nightmares. A good shock probably helps.

Sherlock gives him a look; not _the_ look, but almost as annoying. This one is the one that says 'idiot' and usually comes with the 'punch me' subtext.

"You suggested I sleep," he points out, the 'obvious' implied.

"Not in my bed!"

"I hardly think that matters."

"Wha-? Yes, it bloody well matters, Sherlock!"

Sherlock groans and drops himself onto his back dramatically, like a particularly lanky Victorian maiden in a swoon. The imagery is put off by the sour twist to his face.

"An intellect such as mine does not have an off switch, John. I can lay in my bed all day, but I do not sleep, I think. Deductions, experiments, thoughts and ideas, all boggled around in my brain and I must act on them at once, never mind my body and its incessant, pestering needs. My mind is what matters, the transport is simply weight to be carried. I do not sleep because I cannot. There are simply too many interesting things to wonder upon, and more than ample time to do so. Blurring the facts by turning them to dreams is simply wasteful."

He speaks quickly, frantically, and hardly takes a breath during his entire speech, much like he does while explaining deductions. John is unimpressed and it must have shown on what little Sherlock can see of his face, because he pauses. Then Sherlock's expression goes rather strange, like his features aren't quite sure how to arrange themselves.

"...I do want to sleep," he tries again. "However, it's simply one of very few things I find rather...beyond me." Sherlock frowns, as if he finds his admission that he isn't completely amazing at something absurdly out of character. John resists the urge to point that out.

"Doesn't explain why you decided to bunk in with me and spoon."

Sherlock flips his wrist, his features melting back into 'bored and unimpressionable'. "Don't be crude, John. The confines of my own room are much too stifling, too crammed with old deductions and theorems and equations - memory retrieval! It's nearly impossible to drift off."

"And...?"

"Well, your room is so delightfully void of cluttering thoughts. It must be so relaxing not to have to think at all."

It's nearly two in the morning and John very much feels like strangling his flatmate now, but he strokes a hand over his face instead and takes a deep, steadying breath. No need for Lestrade to get that kind of call. "So why not kip on the sofa?" he asks tensely.

Sherlock tightens his lips momentarily, and shifts about as if he'd sat on something uncomfortable. The odd expression was back. If John didn't know any better, he'd think he was fidgeting. Nervously, even.

Finally, he replies softly, focusing forward toward the window that shone weak light on his face. "...I thought I might be more inclined to sleep if I had someone to keep still for."

Oh.

Has he never had a bedmate before, then? Obviously. It is rather hard to imagine Sherlock sharing that kind of intimate space. He's probably a cover-hog, too. Could be a snorer. Probably talks in his sleep, too, seeing as he never shuts up. Never stops thinking, more like. It has to be difficult to lie awake night after night in a perpetual state of 'bored, John, bored'; he can hardly blame the git for laying waste to his violin all night.

John almost feels sorry for him. He teeters on the edge between pity and irritation; a place he finds himself in more often than not since befriending the friendless man.

Well. Friendless plus one.

John opens his mouth, preparing to say something kind and doctorly, when Sherlock - really, it's a miracle he stopped talking for as long as he did - pipes up again.

"Incidentally, it appeared to be working until you roused and tried very valiantly to tear my limbs out of socket. Do learn some decorum, John, honestly."

And that pretty much tips the scale back into irritation. John flops back down, energy spent. "Sod it."

"But since you're awake, there was a matter about last week's case which I wanted to discuss..."

John groans loudly into his pillow. "Sherlock," he said, stern through the muffling of down. "Go to sleep."

"Well, I was trying, but you-"

"Go. to. sleep."

"...Emphasizing each word does not change the fact that it is impossible, John."

John lets out the sigh of the long-suffering flatmate and rolls onto his back. "Fine, just...do whatever it is you did before; you said it was working."

He turns his head to meet the thoughtful gaze on the pillow beside his. Why does he even have two pillows? None of his girlfriends can ever say over. He hasn't shared his own bed with someone once since leaving Afghanistan. It really says something about John's life that the first person he does share it with is his nutter of a flatmate. Said nutter smirks, not having moved his gaze once from John, and John gets the not unfamiliar feeling that Sherlock is reading his mind.

"...Very well, John, roll over."

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes were lit up as if John was a double-homicide. "Roll over. On your side, like before."

John rolls his eyes instead. Sherlock gives him another look.

Huffing out an annoyed breath, John turns over so his back is to Sherlock again. It's strangely disconcerting not being able to see him. There's always a chance this is all a ruse to harvest one of his kidneys 'for science'.

There's a rustle of bedclothes as Sherlock wriggles around, getting comfortable, then a long, pale arm drapes around John's chest. John huffs out something too short and hysterical to be a laugh and shifts uncomfortably against the mattress.

"...Sherlock, is this really necessary?"

"Mmn. Quite possibly. It is one of many possible factors I am willing to test."

Beneath the blankets, Sherlock's knee presses lightly into the back of John's thigh. He tries not to tense up.

John always thought Sherlock would be as bony and cold to the touch as he looks - not that he spends a lot of time thinking about it. As it is, Sherlock's knee is soft and his arm is warm, just like anyone else's. Human. Okay, so it's fairly comfortable once the 'weird' factor is ignored, and John doesn't have the heart to tell Sherlock to bugger off because this isn't something flatmates do. They do a lot of things normal people don't.

Resigning himself to the situation, John lets out a slow breath and gingerly pulls his arm from beneath Sherlock's to shove it under his pillow. It doesn't have to be weird. It's just one night. Hopefully, John thinks, this little sleep study is a success and does not end up with Sherlock raving at him from the other side of the bed because his breathing is too loud.

Surprisingly, it's only a few minutes before John realizes that the gentle puffs of air on the back of his neck are evening out. He whispers Sherlock's name, but there is no response. He's asleep. Sherlock is actually sleeping.

John sighs, this time with relief, and Sherlock stirs lightly. He makes a little snuffling noise and crowds closer, silky curls tickling John's ear. John feels a rush of fondness for his friend spread warmly in his chest and smiles. _Nutter._

"'Night, Sherlock," he whispers, careful not to wake him. Sherlock sleeps on, and John settles in as well, feeling exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He's sure, somehow, that he won't be back in Afghanistan when he closes them again.

He needn't have bothered.

As it turns out, Sherlock really does talk in his sleep. In four different languages.


End file.
